Behind Slammed Doors
by FujimoriChikaru
Summary: Arthur was only delaying the inevitable, and the sight of Francis' rigid back stepping foot on their front porch would have him seething-and then the door would slam shut with an almost echoing bang. And then the fear would set in. And he would wait.


**Written simply because Valentine's Day fanfictions are always stock-full of fluffiness, and I thought there should be just a tad bit more angst n.n Don't worry - ending is fluffy, at least!**

**Rated T only for itty-bitty implication at the end, but let me know if you think it should be changed...**

**Also, I know there are quite a bit of run-on sentences and repetition. It's all intentional, trust me.**

**I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers  
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><p><strong>Behind Slammed Doors<strong>

And just like that, he was out the door.

Arthur waited – like he always did, no matter how useless he knew it was – hoping that maybe, _maybe, _they wouldn't have to return to this cycle, this never-ending pattern that left his heart racing with mild anger – from being walked out on in the mid-sentence – then outright fury – from being walked out on, period – and, fear, because Francis _walked out on him._

It was always the same, always; when Francis was ready to give up he would turn and begin to stomp away, and Arthur would grab his wrist or his arm or his shoulder and _demand _to be listened to as he continued yelling and insulting and screaming his voice hoarse, and most times Francis would turn back and dive right back into their fight, but, Arthur was only delaying the inevitable, because Francis would always, always, without doubt,_ leave, _and the sight of Francis' rigid back stepping foot on their front porch would have him _seething-_

-and then the door would slam shut with an almost echoing _bang._

And then the fear would set in.

Arthur could never find it in himself to move, then. He would stand there, immobile, staring at the painted-red wood with empty eyes. And he would wait, and wait, and wait. And then wait some more. But,

_he's not coming back_

Somehow, his lungs would work again, and he would take a deep, greedy breath, and there would be a stinging that would make the beginning of tears gather on the tips of his lashes. And he would blink them away. He would bring his dry tongue across his chapped lips, sigh, run his hand over his messy mop of hair-

-_another's __gentle __fingers patiently skimming through resistant tangles and snagging at every knot-_

-and a broken sob would break loose, but no more.

…

The boys would be in bed, curled up under their blankets and cuddling with their respective plushies (Alfred's, an alien (absolutely ridiculous, that thing) and Matthew's, a polar bear (Alfred would always insist they _weren't _dolls)), pretending, so they wouldn't be caught listening in. Arthur would smile, comb his fingers through their hair and close the door softly. He'd go back downstairs, turn on the telly for the noise, so he wouldn't have to keep hearing that mocking slam of the door that could only replay itself in his head like a broken record; the volume would be loud, too loud, but it distracted him, if only barely. After ten minutes, more or less, the boys would creep downstairs, slowly, silently, pretending they had been roused by the commotion coming from the flickering screen, and plushies (_not _dolls) pressed close to their chest, they would flop down on the couch on either side of him without a word. He'd change the channel then, to the nonsense cartoons children were watching nowadays, and let his lips turn up just the slightest bit at the corners when his boys would let out little giggles. They'd sit there, all comfortable, cozy, content.

Just the three of them.

…

After about an hour or two, Arthur would turn off the telly and, taking one of each boys' hand in his own, lead them to the kitchen where they'd sit at their favorite chairs and wait patiently, legs swinging and kicking under the table, as Arthur poured a bit of milk in a mug, popped it in the microwave for a few seconds, then another, and set them down before the boys with a plate of store-bought cookies from the cabinets.

-"Ah, mon cher!" _a beep as the _STOP _button was pushed. _"Really, it only takes a few seconds!" _a shake of the head, not disappointed but faintly amused and a familiar smile pulled at flawless lips as glittering sapphire eyes looked fondly at him-_

Arthur's hands would form tight fists.

Matthew would mumble a little "thank you" and Alfred would yell his own thanks and they would dig right in. Arthur would be boiling some water in a kettle, then, while Matthew was dipping his cookies in his warm milk and Alfred would dunk the whole thing in and scoop it out and Arthur would make a face and tell him to stop being gross and Matthew would sigh and Alfred would stick out his tongue. A minute or two later Arthur would sit down with his mug of tea and take a cookie or two, nibbling at it, and the boys would be down to their last five or four cookies, and Matthew would snatch two before Alfred could claim them all and Alfred would take whatever was left and drop them in and would wait and let it all sit and Arthur would make another face and, disgusted, he would berate, _"Alfred!" _and Alfred would just give him a questioning look, an innocent look, and down the rest of the milk, as well as the soggy remains of the cookies that lay at the bottom and the look on Matthew's face would mirror Arthur's disgust. The boys would wait as Arthur finished and Arthur would make a fuss about how late it was and tell them to head on upstairs and go back to sleep, and as they reached the second floor Arthur would yell for them to brush their teeth, and there would be a whisper of Matthew's "okay" and Arthur would ignore Alfred's disbelieving "aw man!" and Arthur would hope Matthew could persuade Alfred to listen to him and he would turn off the kitchen light on his way to the living room and sit back on the couch, turn on the telly and lower the volume, a bit more at peace from the boys' company.

But he could still hear the door's slam in the back of his mind.

…

It would be late, and he would be pacing in front of the television, glancing over at the source of the rather irritating _tickticktick_ing on their mantel every so often and purposely avoiding his gaze at the frames on either of side of the clock, at the pictures inside – Alfred and Matthew, at the zoo with smiles that never wavered and only grew with every passing hour that day; Alfred and Matthew, last Halloween and garbed in their costumes with grins at their earnings in bags so heavy they could hardly carry home; Matthew, at the ice ring and dressed to play hockey with a few other children from his school for his birthday; Alfred, beaming excitedly at the poster of the (absolutely ridiculous) movie the family went to see on his birthday; The four of them, on the midnight of Christmas Eve opening and passing around presents.

Without noticing, Arthur had come to a stop and his eyes lingered over that last picture, at Alfred's unsteady gait as he held the toy aeroplane high and his lips appeared blurred from the noises he was making to imitate that of his newest plaything, at Matthew's too-rare grin at the impossibly large bottle of maple syrup in his hands, at himself beginning to remove the wrapping paper from a palm-sized box, and, over his shoulder…

Francis, leaning over to whisper something sly and what he must have thought to be clever to get Arthur riled up, Arthur could tell, because his own head was turned to yell something back and his brows were furrowed and his face was red (from anger or embarrassment, or perhaps even both, Arthur couldn't quite remember) whereas Francis' head was just leaning on his shoulder and his face was relaxed into a sincerely happy smile… Francis always smiled like that in pictures (where he and Arthur weren't having a shouting match).

Arthur sighed, turned off the hallway lamp and walked back to the couch, sat in front of it staring moodily at the coffee table before him, or, rather, the roses taking residence in a pretty lavender vase on the coffee table before him. They flickered in and out of existence with everything else in the living room from the light coming from the television, but Arthur stared on and on at the red flowers, and he only blinked after he had mindlessly plucked a stem, free of but a few tiny thorns, and brought satin smooth petals to his lips and sniffed delicately, and it smelled _just like _Francis because Francis was always around these meaningless flowers and even had a garden of the damn things in the backyard and Arthur absolutely hated their scent, so he definitely wasn't still smelling the one that he obviously wasn't holding anymore and the warm trails of wetness coming from his eyes, well, Arthur wouldn't be surprised if he was allergic to the damn things. He wasn't gasping or inhaling deep as he could with every not-desperate breath or biting or pursing his lips to muffle the next sob rising from his throat, and he wasn't clutching the rose closer to his chest like some sort of anchor or security blanket.

He wasn't crying.

…

Arthur was lying on the couch, on his side, staring blankly at the vase again.

He hated it. The color, the shape, everything. It was a stupid vase.

He considered pushing it off, or even kicking the coffee table because he was a little too lazy to move, so it would shatter to the ground with a pleasant crash that Arthur was sure would sound almost like music to his ears. He was leaning toward the idea, but…

He didn't really want Francis to add more reason to the anger he would probably still hold when he came home.

If he came home.

Arthur's heart froze.

What if Francis didn't come home? What if Francis waited until Arthur would take the boys to school tomorrow morning to sneak in, pack all his things and just _leave _again? Would he? Would it be home anymore, to not come home to welcoming arms or crude whispers in his ears or tender and passionate kisses or meaningless spats or bizarre endearments or insults on his appearance made up for later in bed or accented "i love you"s?

Arthur blinked away the water from his eyes and searched his memory for what they had argued about in the first place…

He couldn't remember.

Francis didn't get angry – _genuinely _angry – all that easily, and Arthur was never one to get sensitive or emotional, it was really more often than not the other way around, but, then, what could he have said to Francis to make him mad enough to just up and walk out without hesitating, to make him _slam_ the door like that? What had Francis said to have him lying on the couch running a thumb over the rose's stem and had him bursting in tears maybe just ten minutes ago?

_What the hell were they fighting over?_

It was so, so stupid and it had probably started out as one of their insignificant quarrels, too, and for the life of him, Arthur _still _couldn't remember just what had brought it all on…

His ears perked up at the sound of the doorknob turning before he took a deep breath. No. He had been hearing it all night, he was just imagining it again.

There was the muffled jingle of keys, but Arthur had been imagining hearing that, too, a few times already, so he paid it no mind.

And then he heard the door opening, and he sat up so fast his head was spinning.

There was a short pause, a short silence, before Arthur heard the door close softly, the lock turn, a steady rhythm of footsteps and a flick as a switch was turned on and light flooded into the house. Another pause.

"Arthur?" the familiar voice called out hesitantly, but with a guarded tone. Arthur's mouth opened and closed, and he tried desperately to think of something to say.

"Francis?" Arthur finally managed, in an inaudible whisper. Either Francis had impeccable hearing or he was too familiar with this routine, because Arthur could hear him walk briskly into the living room and pause at the doorway.

"Arthur." Francis repeated, taking in Arthur's damp cheeks, the rose beside him and the unwatched telly in a single glance. Francis sighed, walked over to sit next to Arthur and picked up the rose with a sad smile. "Arthur."

"Francis…" Arthur's voice was trembling now, and he blindly punched a tense shoulder. "Idiot!"

Francis smiled at that, at Arthur's shut eyes and Arthur's shaking. He wrapped an arm around Arthur, and they both relaxed at the familiar contact.

"Arthur."

"Idiot!" Arthur hissed, and he turned and grabbed the front of Francis' shirt and desperately smashed their lips together. "Idiot…" Arthur whispered at a break before returning to the rough kiss.

Francis smiled at Arthur's mouth, at Arthur's lips, at Arthur's tongue, at Arthur. Arthur. He smiled and kissed back.

A minute or two later they were fumbling blindly up the stairs – they had turned off the telly and the hallway light, earlier, on their way because they always got more excited in the dark – removing a jacket, a tie, a shirt, a sweater; then, they were groping their way across the upstairs hall and shoes were hurriedly kicked off before they finally reached their room.

And Francis slammed the door shut with an almost echoing _bang_.

And then the arousal would set in.

And, several minutes later, panting on sweat-soaked sheets, sated, they still couldn't remember what the hell they'd been fighting over, but it didn't matter. It never did, because Arthur knew he'd wake up the next morning, happy, and the next afternoon he would come home to welcoming arms and crude whispers in his ears and tender and passionate kisses and meaningless spats and bizarre endearments and insults on his appearance made up for later in bed and accented "i love you"s.

It could be a heartbreaking a pattern, their relationship. But, it was a life they chose, and, even though it hurt both of them sometimes, if it was how life had to be with Francis…

"_Je t'aime, mon lapin."_

Arthur wouldn't have it any other way.

"Mm. Love y' too, Fr'g."

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><p><strong>*ahem* And that is the end. Meh. I'd really love some kind of feedback on this one, I really think my short fics will be my worst...<strong>

**But enough of my pessimism! I hope y'all have a lovey-dovey day jam-packed full of lurve ahead of you today!**

**I really do hope all of you enjoyed reading this, though.**

**If you have any questions, comments, concerns, constructive criticism, etc., please review or send a message and I'll get back to you when I can**

**Ja Ne =D!**


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